


with whom faith could be kept

by language_escapes



Category: Sherlock (TV), St Trinian's (2007 2009)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But the truth is, Irene did beat Sherlock Holmes, by always being one step ahead.</p>
<p>And to be one step ahead, one needs a team.  Irene knows just to whom she should turn.</p>
<p>(In other words, what if the women in Sherlock were St. Trinian's girls?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with whom faith could be kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayIreadtoday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayIreadtoday/gifts).



> If you like Sherlock, the character, and find him unproblematic, you may wish to skip this story. He doesn't get a lot of good press. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> I began this shortly after Scandal in Belgravia aired, after chatting with mayireadtoday about the idea. I then failed to write the last little bit and edit it for two years. But I want this up and done with, so here you are. I'm sorry it's not better, my dear. I am made of fail.
> 
> Partially beta'd by uberniftacular (she did the beta almost a year ago, but I've since changed bits of it).
> 
> Warnings for ableist language, sexism, racism. Whatever I've missed, let me know.

She has a special set of cards, for very particular occasions. They’ve saved her life before. All they say is _Irene Adler. Class of 1997._

For a certain group of people, that’s all the information needed.

******  
Falling into bed with Jim Moriarty was not a good idea, Irene knows that now. She didn’t literally fall into bed with him, of course- too much penis for her taste- but she did call him to use him against Mycroft Holmes. She should have called one of her schoolmates. It is unlikely that they would fuck her over. Because that is what he did. He let slip information to inconvenient people, and now they know she has something important on her phone. Now they’re after her in a way that is beginning to get annoying. Not to mention Moriarty’s increasing threats against her if she doesn’t hurry up and deliver the code.

Now she needs to disappear, and she isn’t quite sure where to start.

Irene is a brilliant woman, and she’s never doubted it. But faking your own death requires more than just brilliance. It requires a team. It requires the right people in the right place at the right time. Irene doesn’t know who those people are, but she knows how she can find them.

Going to St. Trinian’s was quite possibly the best thing she could have ever done. Even if the school hadn’t shaped her in every way and provided her with a career she loves, it connects her to women in every possible station of life. So she calls Violet.

“Violet Hunter,” she purrs into her phone, looking down at her nail polish. She’s scraped them up a bit from when she had to hang off the windowsill of a second floor window for twenty minutes nonstop. She’ll have to fix it later. “Or are you still going by Anthea? How are you doing, darling?”

“It’s Enola now,” Violet informs her succinctly. She sounds distracted, but then, Violet always does. She is usually too busy fiddling with her tech to bother with people. Still, from what Irene knows, Violet has become one of the best counterintelligence operatives in England.

“Enola, then,” Irene corrects. She shifts, the plastic seat of the Tube uncomfortable.

“What do you need, Irene?” Violet asks, getting straight to the point. Irene hides her smile. She has always admired how direct Violet is.

“I need a favor. A big one. Can we meet?”

There’s a long pause on the line, and then Violet says, “Get off the Tube at the next stop. A black car will be waiting for you. Get in it.” Then she disconnects, leaving Irene to smile to herself. Direct and to the point, that’s Violet. Best Geek Irene has ever known.

Irene gets off the Tube as instructed and spots the car waiting for her. Black with no number plate. Apparently Violet has grown into a sense of the dramatic. Irene glances around her, one swift, all encompassing look, and then opens the door, sliding inside.

Violet doesn’t look up from her phone. “Good morning,” she says.

Irene crosses her legs and looks at Violet, frowning. “Your hair is shorter.”

Violet looks up from her phone and very deliberately sets it aside. She touches the ends of her hair, which are curling just beneath her jaw line. Irene could swear it was down to at least her shoulders last time she saw her, maybe longer. 

“Yes. I took down a human trafficking ring. Had to cut my hair to fit the profile of the victims. It was worth it, though. Rucastle won’t be selling any more young women,” Violet says. She says it so matter-of-factly that it would be easy to mistake her as pure business, but Irene has known Violet since they were First Years. They used to con Upper Sixth forms out of their pocket money together. She can see Violet’s pride, her glee.

Irene smiles. “Was this Jephro Rucastle? The politician?”

Violet’s flat façade breaks and she gives Irene a wicked grin. “Yes, and don’t think I don’t know about you and his daughter Alice.”

“Mmm, she looked wonderful in blue,” Irene reminisces, licking her lips.

For a moment, they just look at each other and smile. Irene hasn’t seen Violet since she was Anthea and actually working in Mycroft Holmes’s office, rather than just working for his agency. What with Violet’s work they don’t see each other very often. And when they do, Violet generally isn’t _Violet_. She’s Anthea, or Catherine, or Susan. Enola, now, apparently. Irene doesn’t mind, really, but it’s nice to see her as herself, rather than passing by and trading information in the street.

“Now then,” Violet says, sobering. “What can I help you with?”

Irene sighs and drums her fingers against the door of the car. “Is Mycroft Holmes listening in?”

Violet scoffs. “Of course not, darling, don’t be ridiculous. He may be brilliant and run the agency, but he wouldn’t know how to circumvent my tech even if I were standing next to him and telling him how. You’re perfectly safe; I wouldn’t have picked you up otherwise.”

“Very well,” Irene says, relaxing somewhat. “I need to die.”

Violet arches an eyebrow. “Rather melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“I need to fake my death,” Irene clarifies. “I need Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes to think I’m dead.”

“Just them?”

“If they think I’m dead, if they believe it, then so will the men who are chasing me.”

Violet sighs and lets her fingers drift to her phone. Irene imagines that it must be killing her to leave it to the side. “Someday, Irene, there will be people from whom I can’t save you.”

“This is only the third time I’ve asked for your help,” Irene says, miffed.

“I don’t begrudge you the help, Irene,” Violet says. “But it concerns me, the number of scrapes you get yourself into.”

“And out of,” Irene replies smoothly. “Now, I know you know who I can go to for help. Some names, Violet. That’s all I’m asking.”

Violet gives her a long look, and then grabs her phone, swiftly typing something. She doesn’t look up at Irene as she says, “You may not know it, but I’ve helped a Trinian’s woman fake her death before. You’re not the first. I put a team together for her; I suspect she can help you more directly than I can.”

“Her name?”

Violet smiles at her phone. “Do you remember Soo Lin Yao?”

“Of course!” Irene says, startled. Her breath catches painfully in her throat. Soo Lin was in her year at school, and a fellow Posh-Totty. She was an artist. Even painted Irene, once. They were friends. Close friends. Very close. Irene was devastated upon her death. She took a month off of work when she heard, traveled for a while, let herself cry. “Lovely girl, I was- quite fond of her. You faked her death?”

“Mmm, yes,” Violet says. “She was unfortunate enough to have both the Black Lotus gang and Sherlock Holmes after her. She rang me up, and we got her out.”

“The Black Lotus?” Irene asks. “How in the world did Soo Lin get tangled up with them?”

“A long story, something to do with smuggling.”

“Soo Lin was an _art thief_ ,” Irene says, appalled. 

Violet smiles, and then tosses her the phone. “Yes, but Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know that, does he? You can keep that phone. It has all the relevant numbers in it. Call Soo Lin. She’ll introduce you to the rest- though I’m sure you know all of them already.”

The car pulls to a stop, and Irene tucks the phone into her jacket pocket. Violet pulls another mobile from her purse and begins typing away. Irene opens the door and swings her legs out, but then stops.

“I always did wonder- what are you doing when you’re on the phone? You can’t be texting endlessly.”

“Tetris, mostly,” Violet says, not looking up. “Angry Birds if I get bored.”

Irene laughs and gets out of the car.

******  
Her home in Belgravia is no longer safe, and Irene has sent Kate on to their safe house. She suspects she’ll have to let Kate go entirely if she’s to pull all of this off. She’ll miss her horribly, but it will be safer, in the long run. For both of them. She won’t be responsible for getting the girl killed.

Instead of Belgravia, Irene has been staying in a flat in Brixton. It’s a dingy old thing, and she’s had to postpone her clients (though, admittedly, she would have done so anyway, what with madmen gunning her down), but it suits. She gets home, pulls out her nail polish remover, and calls Soo Lin.

“Hello?” Soo Lin says, sounding suspicious. Irene tries to smile, rubbing the chipped polish off as quickly as she can. It hurts to hear her voice again.

“Soo Lin Yao, as I live and breathe,” Irene forces herself to croon, almost sounding like her usual polished self. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

There is a pause, and then Soo Lin says, “How did you get this number.”

“No worries, darling, your secret is safe. Violet Hunter passed it onto me. I need to fake my death, and I hear you’re a bit of an expert.”

There is another pause. Irene begins painting her nails a vibrant red colour. She has a lipstick that will go beautifully.

“Not on the phone. Meet me by the Eye in two hours.”

Irene sighs as the phone disconnects. It seems to be a day of short phone calls, then.

She needs to pick out her outfit.

******  
They meet by the Eye. Irene wears her favourite suit; Soo Lin is dressed in frumpy jeans and a hoodie. It hurts Irene to see it. Soo Lin used to be impeccably dressed at all times. Still…

“You look pretty good for a dead girl,” Irene muses, sitting down on the bench next to her. She resists the impulse to touch her, to make sure she’s real.

Soo Lin smirks. “It could be worse. This, at least, is clean.”

“You must tell me how you came to be entangled with the Black Lotus. You’re an art thief- why would you have anything to do with them?” Irene asks. It’s been bothering her for the past two hours.

“Oh, that,” Soo Lin says, pursing her lips together in distaste. “Well, if you ask Sherlock Holmes, I was a smuggler for them, just a poor girl who got in over her head, alas.”

“I’m not asking Sherlock,” Irene points out. “I’m asking you.”

“Do you know I was working for the National Antiquities Museum?” Soo Lin asks. She pulls her purse closer to her and starts digging through it, finally pulling out two mints. She hands Irene one, putting the second in her mouth.

Irene carefully unwraps the mint. It’s the same kind she used to eat in their fourth year. “Yes. I thought it was an amusing cover, given how much you stole in those years.”

“Wasn’t it just? Oh, Irene, you should see my collection of pietà paintings and statues. It’s brilliant,” Soo Lin says, smiling.

“Do you still have the piece you did of me?” Irene asks, curious.

“With you as Jesus and Rose as Mary? Of course! You don’t think I would let that piece go, do you?”

“You never know.”

“Well, it’s one of the major pieces in my collection, even if it isn’t worth thousands. Anyway, there was this lovely tapestry that was coming in from China, and I stole it from the Black Lotus Tong. It wouldn’t have been a problem, except that some bloke stole a hairpin around the same time, and it upset the bosses. The long and short of it is that I somehow got tied into a murder case, and between this one boy who thought I had the hairpin- I passed him off as my brother when spinning my sob story- and Sherlock fucking Holmes, I needed to disappear.”

“Like me,” Irene says.

“Like you,” Soo Lin agrees, “except that from what I’ve heard, Sherlock pays attention to you.”

“He didn’t pay attention to you?” Irene asks, baffled. She likes the man. He’s smart. She can’t believe that he would fail to notice details as important as an entire person. Especially a person like Soo Lin, who has always been intelligent and fierce and terribly beautiful.

“Oh, he looked right through me. Saw a Chinese woman, saw my tattoo, and didn’t even notice the gaps in my story. He saw what he wanted to see,” Soo Lin says, shrugging.

“He thought your Posh-Totty tattoo was a Black Lotus symbol?”

“In his defense, I did go through a lot of trouble to paint the same symbol on the dead men’s feet.”

“Now how in the world did you manage that?” Irene asks, intrigued. She’s rather astonished at the lengths Soo Lin went to take care of her death. She knew it would be involved, but to paint on corpses, corpses other than her own, that’s new. That’s a level of detail she might have missed.

Soo Lin smiles and stands up, pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt. “I had a team. A team with access.”

“I can imagine,” Irene says, following her. Soo Lin is wearing Converse shoes, such a contrast to Irene’s own stiletto heels. She remembers that Soo Lin had one of the most extensive and diverse shoe collections in school. Not a single pair of those were Converse. Irene hopes she won’t have to give up her fashion sense when she dies. “So you died?”

“I died,” Soo Lin says simply. “It was rather difficult in my case, since I had to die while Sherlock was in the vicinity, but you, I think, we can kill offstage, as it were. No need for him to discover your cooling corpse. We can refrigerate you first. Makes things easier for Molly.”

“Molly?” questions Irene, gliding around the hordes of tourists. She hates the Eye, but she can understand why Soo Lin wanted to meet her here. “Not-”

“Yes, Molly Hooper. She was a year ahead of us?”

Irene remembers little Molly Hooper, decked out in her black eyeliner and combat boots. It was always strange to her, seeing such a small, unassuming girl wearing Goth gear. “Yes,” Irene says. “We were never close. What is she doing nowadays?”

Soo Lin giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “She works in a morgue.”

******  
“I’m a pathologist,” Molly says, annoyed. “I don’t _work in a morgue_.”

“What do you call this, then?” Irene asks, gesturing to the room around her. It’s cold, and she’s sure there are bodies in the metal cabinets. It looks fairly morgue-like to her.

“It’s- well, yes, all right, it’s a morgue, but I’m a pathologist. A forensic pathologist!”

“Oh, a coroner.”

“I’m not- you’re, you’re doing that to upset me,” Molly says, rubbing her hands on her jeans. It’s completely incongruous to see Molly Hooper, Goth girl, in this Molly Hooper, who is wearing a fuzzy sweater and has a picture of a cat on her desk.

“You’re right,” Irene agrees. “You helped Soo Lin?”

“Obviously,” Molly says, still sounding annoyed. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

“Molly found a body to double for me,” Soo Lin explains. She’s sitting on top of one of the tables, swinging her legs in the air. “She also performed the autopsy and confirmed my identity.”

“And painted tattoos onto bodies,” Irene says. She looks around the morgue, trying to imagine herself lying on one of those tables, a Y-incision destroying her beautiful breasts. She finds her imagination failing her.

“I- yes. It wasn’t one of my prouder moments,” Molly says, reaching up to tug on her hair. Once upon a time, her hair was dyed black. “But Soo Lin needed me.”

“Could you do it again?” Irene asks, trailing her fingers along one of the autopsy tables. The entire place smells of disinfectant. 

“Do what?” Molly asks, looking up at her.

“Find a body. Paint some tattoos.”

“I- yes? Yes, but-”

“Sherlock Holmes needs to think I’m dead,” Irene explains. “And he knows my body.” Molly flushes, and Irene tilts her head. “I’m sorry, Molly, do you know Sherlock?”

“He’s- he’s not exactly a friend, per se, but we’re- that is, I’m- we’re colleagues,” Molly finishes, looking at the ground. Irene smiles gently. She was always shy in school, tripping over her sentences as though they were bombs. Molly may look different now, but she’s essentially the same woman, in all the important ways.

“Do you fancy him?” Irene asks, honestly interested. She could hardly fault the girl. Sherlock is fascinating.

“No,” Molly says, sounding firm. “He- maybe once. He’s charming, when he wants to be. And he’s clever. I’ve always liked the clever ones. But he’s far too wrapped up in Dr. Watson- and, um, himself- to ever really notice me.”

“Doesn’t notice much, does he, for someone whose entire job is about noticing things,” Soo Lin remarks, pulling her feet up and crossing them underneath her. 

Irene ignores her. “He’ll know my measurements. And he’s seen the tattoo, of course.”

“Where’s yours?” Molly asks. “Soo Lin’s is on her foot, of course, but I can’t imagine all Posh-Totties put it in the same place.”

“No, the Posh-Totty tattoo is supposed to be unique in both location and meaning,” Irene says. “Mine is on my left hip.”

“Will it be hard to fake?” Molly asks, pulling a notebook from her desk. She hands it to Irene. “Sketch it for me.”

Irene quickly draws out the myriad of lines and curves that make up her tattoo. She hands the pad back to Molly, who eyes it thoughtfully, biting her lip. 

“I’ll need to see it at some point in order to figure out where it’s faded over time, and for the exact placement, but this shouldn’t be too hard. Any birthmarks, scars, things like that?”

Irene sighs. “Why don’t I just show you, let you get an idea for yourself?” She shrugs her jacket off and pulls the zip of her dress down. 

“Oh! No, no, you don’t need to- to, um, disrobe for me,” Molly says, her hands going up in surprise. “A general idea will be-”

“Sherlock has seen it all, Molly. He’s going to know if it’s not my body on that table if it isn’t absolutely perfect,” Irene says. She lets the dress drop to her ankles and quickly unhooks her bra, tugging her underwear down with one hand and stepping out of them. She kicks her clothes to the side and spreads her arms, smiling. “I’m not bashful, darling. Rather proud of it all, actually.”

Molly is covering her eyes, turning bright red. Irene can see Soo Lin looking her over appreciatively. She turns her head and grins lazily. “Like what you see?”

“You always were gorgeous,” Soo Lin says. “I never forgot that part. That would have been impossible.”

“Really?” Irene asks, wanting to ask more, but at that moment Molly summons up her courage and approaches her, pursing her lips and studying Irene with the least erotic gaze she has ever felt.

“Arms up,” Molly says. Irene lifts her arms obediently. “Hmm. You have a scar on your ribs-”

“Knife fight in Prague,” Irene says. “A king got rather handsy. His bodyguards objected to my punching him in the face.”

“All right. You have good muscle tone- do you mind if I…? Thanks.” Molly places her hand flat along Irene’s stomach, running her hand over Irene. “Arms down now, stand relaxed, no sucking in. Yes, all right. Turn.”

Irene turns, feeling less and less sexy by the moment. She feels more like a science experiment, actually. She thought Sherlock had a scientific eye; it’s nothing compared to Molly’s.

Soo Lin meets Irene’s eyes and smiles softly. “This is what happens when you insist on prancing about starkers. Faking your death becomes that much harder.”

“You’ll forgive me if I didn’t exactly plan for this,” Irene says. “It distracted Sherlock in the moment.”

“No long game, that’s always been your problem,” Soo Lin says airily.

“Did he see your arse?” Molly asks suddenly. “It might be a little hard to get it perfect.”

Irene smiles. She has always been especially proud of her arse. “I don’t believe he did, no. Dr. Watson did-”

“John is a sweetheart, but I doubt he would be able to tell your arse from another,” Molly says, waving a hand dismissively.

“Dear man did try very hard not to look,” Irene muses, turning around to face Molly again.

“He tried to protect me,” Soo Lin says. “Nearly had to conk him over the head with a teapot.”

“One of the priceless teapots to which you devoted your life?” Irene asks, laughing.

“Believe that bit of rubbish, did you? That was the curator’s idea- have a Chinese woman give a demonstration with the ancient Chinese teapots. Stupid wanker. In exchange, I got to attend any auction I wanted. Worth it,” Soo Lin sings. She hops down from the table and walks over to stand next to Molly, eyeing Irene critically. “God, you’re magnificent.”

Something in Irene twinges at that. She swallows tightly. Once- but no.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult, getting a body,” Molly says. She walks over to her desk, humming something under her breath. Irene reaches down and starts putting her clothes back on. It’s cold in the morgue. “The trick will be having someone on the scene when you meet your unfortunate end to ensure that the body is protected and everyone thinks it’s you.”

“You mean a copper,” Irene says flatly. “I hate to break it to you, Molly, but I’m not on good terms with most of the police force. What with the blackmail and all.”

“You don’t need to be on good terms with them,” Molly says. “Because I am. She’s been my best friend since our St. Trinian’s days, and if she helped Soo Lin fake her death, I’m sure she’ll be willing to help you fake yours. She’s always happy to get one over on the great Sherlock Holmes.”

******  
“Sally, it’s me,” Molly says, pounding on the door to a dismal looking flat. “I know you’re home. Open up.”

The door is flung open, and Sally Donovan is standing in the doorway, looking incredibly peeved.

Irene barely knew Molly when they went to school together. She knew almost nothing about Sally Donovan, who was a Goth like Molly. Irene made the cardinal mistake of thinking Sally was a Chav when she talked to her in English class. Sally called her a number of foul names, and after that, Irene did her best to stay away from her. Sally was too intense for her, and besides, Posh-Totties were all that Irene ever really needed.

“What’s this, then?” Sally asks, looking at their small group. “Soo Lin, why are you here? You’re, you know. Dead.”

“I got better,” Soo Lin says, pulling her hood down. “We need to kill someone else now.”

“Swear to God, I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a murderer. Come in, come in, get off the street. Can’t have anybody recognizing you. Irene Adler? You’re a sight for sore eyes. Have the government in a bit of a fuss at the moment.”

“I do my best,” Irene says, grateful for the wave of heat that hits her in the face when she walks in the door.

“You were always excellent at creating a fuss,” Sally says, shutting the door behind them. “Welcome to my humble abode. Tea?”

“God yes,” Soo Lin says.

“Oh, um. Yes. Let me help you,” Molly says, and the two disappear into what Irene presumes is a kitchen. She walks into the living room and sits down, pulling out her own phone. She shoots a quick text to Sherlock ( _I’m not hungry; let’s have dinner_ ) and then looks back at Soo Lin. It’s getting easier to look at her.

“You look good,” she offers eventually.

Soo Lin smiles. “Of course I look good. I learned from the best.”

“Your shoes have suffered,” Irene says, gesturing at the offending trainers.

“It is hard, being on the run,” Soo Lin admits. “My wardrobe shrank considerably. But with you dying, I think Sherlock will forget about me.” She pauses, and then laughs a little. “I am flattering myself, of course. Sherlock didn’t remember me two days after I died.”

“I think you underestimate him,” Irene says.

“I think you overestimate him. You’re just a case to him, Irene,” Soo Lin says. “Maybe he knows your body, but he’ll never know you.”

“Not like you,” Irene says.

“No,” Soo Lin agrees. “Not like me.”

Once upon a time, they were very close indeed.

“What do you do, now that you’re dead?” Irene asks, changing the subject but refusing to break the heated gaze that Soo Lin has fixed on her. She’s never looked away first. “I ask out of concern for my own afterlife, you understand.”

Soo Lin’s mouth creeps up into a smile. “I do the same things as before, mostly. My art collection is extensive, and continues to grow.”

Irene returns the smile. “So I could continue with my work?”

Soo Lin looks away, and Irene does a mental victory dance. Posh-Totties are trained, of course, in the art of the heated gaze, but she flatters herself that she was one of the best in her year. Soo Lin gets bored too easily, and isn’t nearly as competitive as Irene is.

“Not… all your work. Dominatrixes are rather well known,” Soo Lin explains.

She refuses to feel disappointed. That would ruin the game entirely. “Well, that’s a shame. But blackmail?” she asks. As if blackmail were ever that important to her. She did it because it seemed fun, a way to prove that she was better than her least favourite clients, the arrogant government employees who had all the official power but none of the compassion to temper that power, the ones who treated her like shite because she was a sex worker, and even though they wanted and needed her, they didn’t respect her. But she only blackmailed those clients. She actually likes most of her clients. She respects them. She likes helping them find their release. If she has to give up one of her professions, she’d rather give up blackmail.

“You can blackmail people until you die- really die,” Soo Lin says, reaching up and tugging off her hoodie, revealing a thin tank top underneath. Her biceps and triceps are lovely. Irene finds herself staring. “So long as you’re careful about it. You were always too public, Irene.”

“We were Posh-Totties, Soo Lin. We’re meant to be public,” she replies, suddenly sharp and angry, but then Sally and Molly come back into the room, Molly carrying a packet of biscuits, Sally clutching a tea tray and walking as though she’ll drop it at any moment.

“Tea’s on. Hope you tolerate PG Tips,” Sally says, carefully sliding the tray down onto her coffee table. Irene wrinkles her nose but takes the tea anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers, she supposes, and she is the biggest beggar of them all right now.

“Thank you, Sally,” she says graciously, crossing her legs and blowing across the top of the cup.

“Oh, shove it up your arse,” Sally snorts. “Don’t give me that posh shit. What do you need?”

It is refreshing, she supposes, that Sally is always straight to the point. Much like Violet in that way. Irene has spent so long having entire conversations through wrists, glances to the side, small twitches of the lips, that she isn’t used to just coming out and saying anything at all. Words can lie; the body is honest.

“We need a copper to be on scene when I die,” Irene says.

Molly sighs and drinks her tea while standing by the doorway. “She’s so dramatic. We need the same help as before. Making the crime scene believable enough that no one looks too closely at it.”

Soo Lin nods and reaches over to put sugar in her tea, carefully mixing it in. Irene frowns at that; Soo Lin never took her tea with sugar when they were in school. That’s new. “It’ll be different this time around, of course,” Soo Lin says. “For one, Sherlock and John won’t be there.”

Sally inhales slowly, her hands wrapped around the tea cup. “What sort of death are you thinking about?”

Molly and Soo Lin immediately look at Irene, considering. Irene starts to answer, but Molly waves her hand, silencing her. Molly may have been a Goth in almost every way, but she has all of the Geeks imperious attitude, their surety and conviction.

“Violent,” Molly announces.

“Exceedingly,” Soo Lin agrees.

“I was thinking a gun shot,” Irene admits.

“No,” Molly says slowly, shaking her head. “If- if he knows you as well as you say he does, you can’t just have a gun shot wound. You need to be obliterated. Beyond recognition. You said he knows your body?”

Sally looks up with interest. “Oh? I thought he was only interested in dead bodies.”

“He’ll certainly be interested in this one,” Soo Lin says, grinning at Sally.

“He knows my measurements,” Irene says, ignoring them. Their dislike of Sherlock may motivate them to help her, and that’s fine, but she isn’t about to waste time talking about it.

“Beaten to death,” Molly says, nodding. “Face destroyed. Body the only thing useable for identification.”

“Oi, that’s smart,” Sally says, reaching up and tugging Molly down onto the sofa next to her. “Clever you.”

“It’s obvious,” Molly says, but she blushes and looks down.

“So now you just need an actual plan,” Soo Lin says. She puts her tea cup back on the table and leans back in her seat, lifting her feet and placing them on the coffee table. Sally scowls at her but doesn’t say anything. “When do you want to die?”

“It’s getting bad,” Irene admits. “Within the week.”

“Within the week is Christmas,” Molly points out.

“What a perfect gift for Sherlock,” Sally sneers.

“A gift,” Irene says, realizing what she wants to do. “He’ll only believe I’m dead if I give him a gift. It’s not just the body, is it? Not with him. _Everything_ has to match. I need to give him a gift.”

******  
She knows about the Bond Air plan. She knows about the Coventry Conundrum- Violet had told her about it months ago, distressed that Mycroft Holmes was going to allow a plane full of people to blow up. She knows the code has something to do with the plan, thanks to her MoD man. She didn’t really want to work with Moriarty, but she could have used him. She could have used his evil to defeat Mycroft Holmes’ cold, heartless plans, his amorality disguising itself as the greater good. That was her original plan. That’s all bollixed up now.

Her phone is her protection but also the entire reason people want to kill her. Her protection and the bullseye all at once. And so, the phone needs to go, with the code left uncracked, no matter how badly she wanted to make sure that Mycroft Holmes failed. No matter Moriarty’s threats. The information needs to get back to where it belongs, so that governments no longer track her and criminals no longer want her. She needs to stay alive.

She can arrange for Sherlock Holmes to break the code on her phone. She resets her phone’s password. She may like the man, but even she can see that his ego is enormous. Her password should be easy for him to guess now. Sherlocked indeed. Then he can break the code and give it back to Mycroft, and with the information contaminated, he’ll change his plans. Mycroft Holmes loses. Moriarty loses. Irene wins.

“How to get it to him, though?” Irene muses, tapping the phone to her lips. It pains her to give it up- there are some photos that she will miss. She is giving it to him on a hunch, on the idea that the ultimate protection is the lack of it. “I’m an excellent burglar, of course, but he’ll be expecting it. He expects me to break in at some point, if only because I did it before.”

“I- He’s having a house party,” Molly stammers, blushing again and looking down at her lap. “I’ve been invited. I could- you know, I could plant it then.”

“No,” Sally says immediately. “He’s an idiot, but he’s not that sort of idiot. He’ll notice. You need someone else to do it. Someone he trusts.”

Irene raises an eyebrow. “John Watson does not like me. He won’t help me.”

Sally shakes her head. “There are three people, really, that Sherlock trusts. John, of course. He trusts Lestrade, though he’d never admit it. Well,” she amends, “he trusts him to be predictable, at least.”

“And?” Irene prods, when Sally falls silent, smiling to herself.

“And Martha Hudson, class of 1954.”

******  
Finding time with Mrs. Hudson is easier said than done. Despite the fact that she seems like a quiet, respectable landlady (who, nevertheless, has quite the weed crop in her basement), she’s always out and about, meeting with people.

“Her husband was Tommy Hudson,” Sally explains, sitting behind the steering wheel while they wait for Martha Hudson to come out of the bank.

“The notorious bank robber?” Irene asks, surprised.

“Bank robber, extortionist, multiple murderer, that’s him. Sherlock Holmes put him away a few years back,” Sally continues. “Martha, however, has continued to meet with some of the less reputable sorts in her husband’s gang. The Yard keeps track of them. Usually one of the rookie officers handles this, but I thought I might do it today.”

“Has she taken over her husband’s business?” Irene asks, shifting. She hates sitting this long. It’s boring, and even if she watches all the people, it still gets dull after a few hours.

“I’m beginning to wonder if it was ever her husband’s business,” Sally says. “Ah! There she is.”

Martha Hudson, class of ’54, no known Clique, walks gingerly down the steps of the bank and heads into the street. Sally gestures for Irene to stay and jumps out of the car, waving and smiling at Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson breaks into a large smile and greets Sally with a hug. From what Molly has told her, Sally and Sherlock loathe each other, but clearly Mrs. Hudson is unaffected by it all. She wonders if Mrs. Hudson knows that Sally is a St. Trinian’s girl.

Sally and Mrs. Hudson come walking back to the car, and Mrs. Hudson gets in the back. Irene waves her fingers at her.

“Oh, hello dear! Sally didn’t tell me you were in here, I just presumed it was that dear Inspector… what’s your name?” Mrs. Hudson asks, smiling.

“Irene Adler,” Irene says, offering her a card. “Class of ’97.”

Mrs. Hudson takes her card and inspects it for a moment. Sally gets back in the car, shutting it and turning up the heat. It’s getting quite cold outside. Mrs. Hudson takes a moment and then looks shrewdly at Sally, the image of a dotty old woman disappearing in the blink of an eye. “What do you need?” she asks instantly.

Irene wonders if all alumni are like that, so quick to ask what a classmate needs regardless of anything else, or if that’s just a St. Trinian’s thing. “I need to die, and we need your help.”

Mrs. Hudson squints at Irene in the mirror, pursing her lips. “This is like Soo Lin Yao, isn’t it?”

Sally turns in her seat. “You knew about Soo Lin?”

“I knew there was something suspicious about her death. It helps that none of my contacts in the Black Lotus had ever heard of Soo Lin,” Mrs. Hudson admits. “Don’t worry, Sherlock didn’t suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Good,” Sally says. “Try to avoid mentioning that to Lestrade, eh?”

Mrs. Hudson nods. “Now, then. What do you need?”

“Do you think you could plant evidence?” Irene asks, giving Mrs. Hudson her most charming smile.

Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Are you joking, dear heart? How do you think I got my husband convicted of a whole laundry list of crimes, rather than just the murders he was responsible for?”

******  
It’s all set. Molly has found the perfect body and has a jolly good time bashing its face in. It’s disturbing, actually, but then, that’s what made Molly a Goth. Sally prepares the scene of the crime, a factory that has been closed for the last few months. It’s a known drop for international spies- known to them, at least, thanks to Violet. She lays all the evidence. Irene hands the box with her mobile over to Mrs. Hudson and trusts her to put it in place on Christmas Eve, when everything will happen. 

Soo Lin doesn’t have much to do, which seems to be driving her batty. Irene is staying with her for the time being, waiting for her death as patiently as she can. A few more hours, that’s all. Soo Lin copes with inactivity poorly and takes to pacing.

“It’s going to take more,” Soo Lin frets. “Sherlock may have looked right past me, but he won’t look past you. And with the nature of what is on your phone, Mycroft Holmes is going to be involved as well. They can be fools, but they’re clever, Irene. We can’t underestimate them.”

Irene watches Soo Lin pace from where she’s stretched out on the sofa. It’s been like this for days now. She remembers that Soo Lin was always a bustle of activity during their school years, but this level of franticness is new. She reaches out and catches Soo Lin by the wrist. She can feel her pulse underneath her fingertips. “Soo Lin,” she says gently. “I’m not. I’m using their cleverness against them.”

Soo Lin shakes her head and sits down on the edge of the sofa next to her. “It isn’t just them, Irene. It’s Jim Moriarty- who, by the way, you’re insane to get involved with- and the United States government and the British government and a few too many criminals who want the information you have. They’re not going to stop just because you’re dead.”

“Which is why I’m giving my phone to Sherlock,” Irene says. “They won’t want me; even if they figure out I’m alive, it isn’t as though I’ll have the information anymore. Once Sherlock breaks my passcode, he can give the phone to Mycroft, and then the information will be gone for good. No one will have it. Especially not a dead woman.”

“Something’s going to go wrong,” Soo Lin warns, tilting so she can lay down next to Irene. Irene scoots over to let her. She keeps her hand on Soo Lin’s wrist, drawing her hand over to rest against her chest, pressing Soo Lin’s hand against her heart. “I can feel it.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Irene says. Soo Lin stares at her for a long while, and Irene pulls her close, pressing a chaste kiss against her forehead. She wants to kiss her again, but she can’t. She settles for holding her as tight as she can, burying away the rush of anger and hurt that she feels. Soo Lin sighs out a long, warm breath against her neck. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Irene says eventually. “I’m going to help Molly pick out her outfit.”

******  
It goes perfectly.

Of course it does.

That is, until it doesn’t.

******  
“What do you mean he hasn’t broken my password yet?” Irene hisses, bolting upright. Soo Lin looks over at her from the kitchen, frowning.

“I mean,” Mrs. Hudson whispers over the phone, “that he’s barely even touched the phone. He just sits around his flat all day, playing sad music and staring out windows. It’s quite moving, actually; I rather think he misses you.”

Irene turns to Soo Lin, yanking the phone down, feeling panic low in her belly. “What’s the chatter been like?”

“According to Violet, the Americans are coming for that phone,” Soo Lin says, eyes wide. “You said he’d solve it by now! And that he’d hand it over to Mycroft!”

“A woman has to do everything, can’t trust anything to a man at all,” Irene mutters, and lifts the phone back to her face. “Mrs. Hudson, get out of there.”

“And leave the Americans the phone? Are you joking?” Mrs. Hudson says incredulously, and hangs up. Irene curses and turns back to Soo Lin.

“I need a girl, any girl. Beautiful. A red-head, maybe. Light brunette. Someone that would appeal to John.”

“Oh, you mean anyone who might confirm his slowly disappearing heterosexuality?” Soo Lin snorts. She walks back into the living room and plucks her phone up from the sofa table. “I know just the woman. Susan Cushing, lovely girl, class of ’99. Why do you need someone who will appeal to John?”

Irene ignores her and walks into their bedroom instead, yanking open the closet doors. She had to give up a majority of her wardrobe when she died (she gave most of it to Kate, a farewell and an apology all at once), but she still has a few of her more choice outfits. She goes for the dramatic, all-black ensemble, tugging it on and then setting to work on her face.

“I said,” Soo Lin says, appearing in the door way and leaning against the frame, “why do you need to appeal to John?”

“I need him as an intermediary,” Irene explains, frowning at her reflection. She’s been dead only a week and she’s let herself go. She blames Soo Lin. “I can’t let Sherlock know I’m alive, and John can bring me the phone.”

“He’ll want you to tell Sherlock,” Soo Lin muses, walking further into the room. “I told you that something would go wrong. You shouldn’t have relied on Sherlock.”

Irene lets out a sharp breath, feeling frustrated and angry all at once. She turns to face Soo Lin and crosses her arms. “You know, I understand you and Sally hate the man, but I don’t. Haven’t got a reason. He’s smart, Soo Lin. He’s clever.”

Soo Lin studies her for a moment, face going blank and empty. “And smart is the new sexy.” Her voice is dull, and Irene sighs.

“I don’t-”

“Don’t you?” Soo Lin asks lightly. “Because from over here, it rather looks like you do.”

“Soo Lin…”

“He treats women like dirt, Irene. Less than dirt, actually. We’re beneath his notice. It doesn’t bother you?” she asks, finally walking all the way into the room. “Men like him- men who are smart and clever- should realize that women can be just as smart, just as clever. They should notice us when we do something extraordinary. They should notice us because we’re people, and people should be noticed. But he doesn’t. He says he sees the obvious, but he never see us. So you see, Irene, I can’t really credit him with being smart or clever. Because he’s too willing to dismiss a woman simply because she’s a woman. I went to St. Trinian’s. We are the best.”

“So screw the rest,” Irene finishes. She sighs. “He’s not perfect.”

“I refuse to admire anyone who treats people the way he does,” Soo Lin snaps. “It’s deplorable.”

Irene thinks about that, carefully dabbing on her foundation. Soo Lin is right, of course. She saw Molly’s tears after the party, heard the stories from Sally. He can be incredibly cruel, and he does seem to treat women worse than he does men. But he looked at a crime scene from a computer screen and solved a case in a glance, and Irene can appreciate that. He helps people, even as he treats them horribly. 

“I admire what he does. I admire his talents,” she says finally. She picks out a lipstick, and looks at Soo Lin in the mirror. “And he treated you deplorably.”

Soo Lin looks down, inhaling sharply. When she looks up again, there is just a faint glean of tears in her eyes. Angry tears. “I’ve spent my entire life being treated like a stereotype, Irene. I didn’t expect it from him, a supposedly clever man.”

Irene nods. There is little else she can do.

******  
The meeting with John doesn’t go… exactly as planned. Irene’s beginning to think that the best plan would to have no plan. She’s on her way back to the flat when she gets a text from Soo Lin.

_Americans attacked Mrs. Hudson. She’s fine; kept phone safe._

Irene curses. This is beginning to get more and more complicated.

******  
“Do you realize that psychopath threw a man out of a window several times?” Sally snaps, bursting in Soo Lin’s flat without knocking. Irene had called a meeting for her team, feeling like she got them into this mess and needs to dig them out again. “I was there when we carted him off to hospital.”

“To be fair, he did hit Mrs. Hudson,” Molly says cautiously, scooting over to make room next to her on the sofa. Sally flings herself onto the sofa and drapes an arm over Molly casually.

“That’s my point!” Sally practically yells. “Fucker should have been killed! With his own gun!”

“Sally!” Molly says, sounding shocked. “You’re an officer of the law!”

Sally looks around the room, at the astonished faces, and raises her hands defensively. “Well, what’s the point of being an officer of the law if you can’t protect you and your own?”

“That would be an abuse of your position,” Irene points out, looking up from her phone. She received a text from Sherlock on her way to their meeting. A simple wish for a happy new year. It’s surprising. Why would he text her?

“Don’t let me see you complaining about abusing my position,” Sally says. “You weren’t the one tromping about in men’s shoes and dragging a body into position to create a fake crime scene.”

“I’m fine, anyway,” Mrs. Hudson says, walking in from the kitchen. She’s carrying a tray full of tea cups, ever the landlady. “Just a bit of a fright, and besides, they didn’t think I would have the phone. They just wanted Sherlock.”

“They held a gun to you,” Soo Lin says angrily. “That isn’t right.”

“He should have cracked my password by now,” Irene says. She takes a cup of tea, pouring milk into it and adding a bit of sugar. She prefers her tea black, generally, but her mind is racing, and she wants a drink that can keep up. “But he hasn’t. He may try, now that Mrs. Hudson has been threatened.”

“He may not figure it out,” Soo Lin points out. “What then?”

Irene thinks for a moment. She needs to outwit Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes both while keeping her friends safe. She needs that phone to go. She needs it in the government’s hands.

“Coventry,” Irene says suddenly.

“Never been,” Molly says, looking up. “Are we going? I’ll need to pack.”

“No, the Coventry plan, the code from my MoD man,” Irene says, standing up and running a hand through her hair. “It’s supposed to happen in a few months. I never cracked the code, it’s on my phone. Moriarty is expecting it from me, and with me dead, I thought it would be all right. But he’ll know I’m alive by now. And if people want the phone that badly, I need to make sure Sherlock cracks it.”

“No one will try anything for a bit,” Soo Lin says, picking up on what Irene is saying. Irene looks at her and nods. “You could go to him, when the heat is on, say you need his protection.”

“Oh, that’ll appeal to his ego,” Sally says, nodding. “And John’ll like that too.”

“No,” Molly says, shaking her head. “John hates Irene. He’s said so. To me.”

Irene laughs. “That poor man. The hoops I’ve forced him through. Rather broke his brain today.”

“Whatever,” Sally says, waving her hands in the air. “The point is, you go to Sherlock, all damsel in distress.”

“Yes, and I get him to crack the code,” Irene says. “I can pass on the information to Moriarty, and-”

“Why?” Soo Lin interrupts. She walks over to Irene and sits down on the air of her chair. Irene can just feel her, an electric sort of heat along her arm. “Why do you need to involve that odious little man at all?”

Irene could tell them all about Mycroft Holmes’ plan to allow for the death of an entire plane full of people in order to fulfill some master scheme, but she doesn’t. Because that isn’t the point, although it is why Irene went to Moriarty in the first place. Soo Lin is looking down at her, intense, and Irene knows she needs to tell her, at least, the absolute truth.

“He said he’d skin me alive. Make me into shoes. If I didn’t,” she confesses. “When I was dead, it didn’t matter, but now that he knows I’m actually alive…”

Molly sucks in her breath, and Sally says something foul. Mrs. Hudson mutters something that sounds oddly like a prayer, strange from a woman like her, but Soo Lin just stares at her.

“All right,” says Soo Lin steadily. “We involve the odious little man. You’re a gorgeous woman, Irene, but you’d look horrible as a pair of shoes.”

Later, when they’ve hammered out the plan and Mrs. Hudson has returned home, and Sally wakes Molly up and takes her home with her, it’s just Soo Lin and Irene, and Irene can feel Soo Lin’s eyes from across the room.

“What?” she asks.

“He threatened to kill you, which is why you still are offering him information, that I understand,” Soo Lin says. “I know a bit about James Moriarty, and I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of one of his threats, either. But why would you consult him in the first place?”

Irene stares at Soo Lin for quite a while. She knows the answer, of course, because how could she not? But she doesn’t know if she wants to share it with Soo Lin. She admires Soo Lin; she respects her, she- no. She likes to imagine that when Soo Lin looks at her, she feels the same way. If she admits- if she tells her, that may change.

And Irene, despite the way she lives her life, hates change.

Soo Lin stands up and comes to sit next to Irene. She twists in her seat so she can look right at Irene, eyes dark and intense and haunting, as haunting as they were when they were in school together, giggling under the sheets, trying to hide their delight in one another. Irene remembers staring up at her, one hand slipped between Soo Lin’s thighs, Soo Lin more beautiful than she ever thought she could be. She remembers Soo Lin kissing her fingertips after their graduation, a farewell and an apology all at once.

Irene never did get over Soo Lin’s eyes.

“I wanted to prove that I could be more than just a St. Trinian’s girl,” Irene says finally, a confession to the one woman she ever confessed anything to. She turns so she can really look at Soo Lin, can watch the disappointment in her eyes. “I wanted to prove that I could make my way in the world without St. Trinian’s connections. I wanted- I wanted to be independent.”

Soo Lin gives her a sad look. “There’s nothing wrong with needing us.”

“You didn’t need me,” Irene says, her next confession. It tears at her to say it, but it’s true.

Soo Lin looks surprised and places a hand on Irene’s cheek. “Of course I needed you. I always needed you, Irene.”

“You would never let me tell people we were together,” she says softly, looking down at her hands. She needs to redo her nail polish again. “You insisted that we remain private. And then you left me. You left me and you didn’t even really say good-bye, and the only way I knew where you were or what you were doing was when Violet told me. And then you died, and I thought- I thought you were really dead, and I hadn’t ever told you that I loved you, once upon a time.”

Soo Lin’s other hand comes up and rests on the other side of her face, her hands framing Irene’s face as perfectly as it once did, when they were little more than children under bedsheets. Irene is a dominatrix, as much a profession as a personal preference, but never when it came to Soo Lin. With Soo Lin, she learned to yield. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did. And I don’t know if I can forgive that,” Irene says, her final confession, the one thing she never wanted to admit. Her only secret, the only thing she’s never said out loud or even allowed herself to think. Something that she has known ever since Soo Lin left her, a terrible knowledge she tried to avoid. She stands and pulls away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for my great act of villainy.”

She desperately wants to look back at Soo Lin, wants to see if she’s hurt, sad, scared; if she looks like she wants Irene, if she looks like she already misses her.

She doesn’t look back.

******  
The plan goes perfectly.

Of course it does.

She convinces Sherlock that she’s in love, and that it’s her downfall. And of course it is, but it isn’t Sherlock she loves, and he isn’t, will never be, her downfall.

She listens to him “solve” her, lets herself tear up, pretends to be desperate and a failure, and she isn’t, she couldn’t be. She’s Irene Adler, class of 1997, and no St. Trinian’s woman will ever fail so long as she remembers her roots. She lets herself cry, and knows she isn’t crying for him, or for her “failed” plan. She’s crying for herself.

She wants Soo Lin more now than in any other moment in her life, and she can’t have her. She’ll never have her.

Because of her own stubbornness and refusal to forgive sins that aren’t sins at all, just a strong sense of self-preservation, which Irene should understand all too well. Because of her own desire for independence amongst women who thrive on interdependence. Because of her inability to speak up before and her refusal to speak up now.

That’s something worth crying over. That’s her downfall.

The only one who could ever be the architect of her downfall is Irene Adler herself.

******  
They let her go.

Irene returns home to find Soo Lin gone.

Of course she is.

She’s dead, after all.

******  
“It isn’t over,” Molly tells her over tea. “Without your protection, you’ll have every government coming after you, every rogue agent, every criminal. Moriarty can’t be pleased with you, either.”

“You need to die,” Sally agrees, her hand on Molly’s wrist, so light that it wouldn’t seem like anything, but Irene thinks she understands now, the gentle cues, the smiles and blushes. She wonders if they do, too, or if they obstinately refuse to see what’s right in front of them.

“Again?” Irene asks, adding a spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirring it. She’s feeling oddly bleak, despite outwitting the Holmes brothers. She tricked them, she turned their arrogance against them- and having seen them in victory, she better understands why Soo Lin and Sally hate Sherlock; it’s hard to know you’re better and have to watch someone treat you as though you’re less. It’s why Irene started blackmailing people to begin with, after all. But even given her poorly behaved clients, Irene has rarely hated someone more than when she had to let Sherlock deduce exactly what she wanted him to deduce. It was her plan, of course. It was necessary, of course. But she wanted to strangle him with his own damn scarf for thinking she would be so foolish. 

“They aren’t going to stop,” Sally says softly, for a moment looking almost gentle. She tries so hard to look tough, but Irene can imagine Sally at Scotland Yard, constantly belittled by men, and imagines that toughness comes from dealing with their attitudes day in and day out. “They will kill you, if they catch you.”

“So I don’t get caught,” Irene argues, but she knows it’s a ridiculous argument.

“You will, though,” Molly says. She looks up from her tea cup and looks tragically young and tragically sad, and Irene wonders if all St. Trinian’s women look like that eventually. Or if it’s all women, in the end. “You’ll need to sleep, or eat, or buy groceries, or whatever, and they’ll be waiting. And you’ll be on my slab, like everyone else. I see a lot of Posh-Totties, Irene. Geeks, Emos, Chavs- you all end up on my slab eventually. It’s just a matter of when.”

Irene considers for a moment, wishes Soo Lin were sitting next to her, a hand on her thigh. Then she nods. “All right. Let’s start planning.”

“You need to plan for Sherlock, too,” says someone behind her. As if Irene doesn’t know who it is. She knows that voice. She has known it since they first kissed when they were thirteen, since they first made out when they were fifteen, since they first fucked when they were sixteen. Irene has known that voice since it whispered in her ear secrets when they were twelve, when it shouted obscenities at fourteen, when it apologized when they were seventeen. When it told her they were going to be a secret, their own special secret, ages fifteen through seventeen, an endless loop of hurt. She closes her eyes, swallows, and turns to look at Soo Lin.

She’s dressed like a Posh-Totty again. Heels seven inches high and red with spikes everywhere; a black dress that hugs every curve she has; lipstick as red as the heels and just as dangerous. Irene falls in love all over again, knowing that it’s her lot in life, to love a woman as unattainable as Soo Lin.

“Yeah?” Sally asks, not sounding at all surprised.

Soo Lin looks at Irene, soft and sad and perfect all at once. “He never looked through you,” she says. “No one ever could. Me least of all. I’m sorry.”

Irene stands, and she doesn’t think about it, doesn’t even hesitate, because she’s died once, become a stupid villain once, and lost Soo Lin twice. She will not lose her again, not to death or villainy or ridiculous consulting detectives and their terrible brothers and vicious enemies. “He should have seen you the way I do,” she says, and kisses Soo Lin. She wants her lipstick to stain her lips, wants her hands to frame her face again, wants Soo Lin between her thighs once more, as if they were children. She wants everything, anything that Soo Lin will give her.

When she breaks the kiss, Soo Lin is smirking. “I never meant to hurt you. I thought you didn’t want me. You never said- you never said it was anything other than sex.”

“You’re such a twat,” Irene says. “For three years?”

From behind her, she hears Sally cough. “That’s great and all, ladies, but we have yet another murder to plan. One where we have to fool Mycroft _and_ Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” Soo Lin says, gliding around Irene and sitting down, her hand never leaving her wrist, tugging her with her. She smiles up at Soo Lin, a vicious, mischievous thing, and Irene doesn’t know why she ever went to Moriarty when she could have always had these women at her side, fighting her battles. Moriarty will never be as terrifying as an angry St. Trinian’s girl. “Make Sherlock a hero, and he’ll never think twice.”

“Oh, that’s true,” Molly agrees, and then ducks her head. “I don’t mean- that isn’t- he isn’t a _bad_ person…”

“But he looks through us,” Irene says finally, looking at Sally and Soo Lin, nodding slowly and sitting back down. “And we can use that to our advantage.”

“He’ll never see it coming,” Sally says.

“You know,” Molly muses, tapping the table with a finger, “if we keep outwitting Sherlock Holmes, we might as well just be consulting detectives ourselves. I mean, we’re already doing half of his job for him.”

There’s a long silence, and Irene glances at all of them. There’s a look of shock, terror, and thrill on Molly’s face. Irene can tell she’s surprised she even suggested it. But Molly, sweet and gentle though she may be, has never been a good girl. No St. Trinian’s woman ever really is. Sally looks pleased, but that doesn’t surprise Irene in the least. She doesn’t even want to imagine her life as a police officer. And Soo Lin? 

Soo Lin’s smile is dirty and cruel and Irene wants to kiss her, wants to _devour_ her. “I say we do one better.”

“What could be better than besting Sherlock Holmes at his own game?” Sally asks, incredulous.

But Irene knows Soo Lin, despite the years. And Irene has always been a criminal. “Being the criminals he’ll never catch,” Irene says.

“That he never suspects,” Soo Lin adds.

“That he never sees,” Molly says, catching on and looking even more excited.

“We could own England,” Sally says.

“Fuck England,” Soo Lin snorts. “We could own the _world_.”

They sit in silence again, everyone staring down at their tea. Soo Lin’s hand is running up and down Irene’s thigh, and it’s distracting. 

“If Sherlock Holmes wants a villain,” Irene says finally, reaching down and pulling Soo Lin’s hand into her own, twining their fingers together, “I say we give it to him.”

******  
It goes perfectly.

Of course it does.


End file.
